His nights are spent in an invigorating blend of cacophony and blinding glares, that pour in through his decaying walls, crumbling to dirt in places or stained with damp. His abode was centrally located amongst a seamless maze of alleys.
His beauty sleep is oblivious to the jarring of the machinery in the distance. His source of music, the periodic whirring of engines accompanied by the clanking of metal on stone. The heat of the day was a memory; the air was chill. Above, a cold round moon shone down, slathering silver across the roofs and courtyards. He spends his days in the city, watching the stars on the big screen.
At night he lies awake and he wonders, "Why can't that be me?"
In his life, he is filled with all these good intentions.He's left a lot of things, he'd rather not get nostalgic. Just before he says "goodnight", he looks at the fleeting night sky and says, "If I could be like that, I would give anything, just to live for a day, in those shoes." Then he'd lose himself into thinking of the limitless possibilities, as consciousness turned to slumber. His dreams were vivid, marked by a palette of assorted hues and concurring notes of music. Strangely, he never recalled having one that had anything to do with his half-dead world.
He worked at North Park, capturing the atingle mood of tourists. His workplace was a granite bench, obliquely established. His supplies-two pencils. He sat there, sketching and watching people as they pass. His social circle consisted of the park janitors and vendors. His idea of partying was sharing a can of beer with his peers. Oh and they had peanuts too.
All he wanted was a little piece of his dream. A safe home, a warm bed, on a quiet little street.
All he wants is something to hold on to. Is that too much to ask?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
